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The silver smoke drifted from his lips, but he was still on edge. Smoking usually made his nerves settle, like some kind of suicidal breathing exercise...
By now he'd tried everything; he hit the gym, took a cold shower, spoke on the phone with Claire. Hell, he even took some meditative time in the shooting range. Smoking was his last ditch effort, before resorting to the final, humiliating attempt.
The worst part? Chris knew what would work. He felt restless like this every now and then, maybe it comes with the hermit-style celibacy he's put himself in. It jeopardises his efficiency at work, it makes him irritable and it makes him see things he knows are not real. God forbid a blonde with thin lips and long legs walk past him, right? Fucking ridiculous. His own reflection in jet-black sunglasses, heat that presses down on him a little too close to sweltering. Skin tight leather, harnesses and straps and flexibility. Annoyingly perfect hair and the need to mess it up fills him, overflows as if about to drown him. Before he knows it; he's snuffed out the half-finished cigarette.
The curtains rustle as he draws them, plunging the room into near darkness. Only the bedside lamp is on, he doesn't need it to navigate. Not because he knows the apartment, but because he's used to moving in thick darkness. Chris walks up to his bed, and reaches under it. After pulling out a pillow he unbuckles his belt and slips it out of the loops before tossing his pants into the darkness. His socks and shirt had gone the moment he got home, not like the evening air was enough to chill him during his smoke.
The pillow on his bed is a thing of shame. When he got it, there were no plans to use it for anything other than sleeping, however... When he felt it under his palm, it was like having a smooth, waxed chest under his hand again. So pale in his memories that the cream pillowcase played the part in his fantasy perfectly. After the first time he'd thrown it to the floor, cheeks burning from his compulsiveness. By the second, no. Maybe third? Whatever, nth time he just got a new pillow and designated this one to a single task; for evenings like this.
Chris kneels on the bed, palming himself through his boxers. He was already stiff, body reacting to just the sight of this damn pillow. Whatever, he grits his teeth and closes his eyes to ride out the first waves of embarrassment before the frayed memories took over. The cigarette smoke still clinging to his bare skin helps the memories surface.
Coffee, stale cigarette smoke and paper, the unnecessarily ornate entrance hall of the RPD stretches out before him. It's empty, front desk deserted. He looks around dumbly, until he hears his name.
"Chris."
Chris. Chris.
There's only one person who has ever said his name like that, nobody else says his name like that. He doesn't let anyone say his name like that, after everything. At first there's no body or face to the familiar voice, until he sees those legs slip behind a corner. Black cargo pants, spit shine boots to the calves. He's quick to follow.
The corridor is probably in the wrong part of the building, but who cares. He sees the open door to the broom closet anyways. The invitation. Was he supposed to resist? That'd be the cruellest test to subject him to. Chris enters, closing the door and turning to face-
Wesker, Captain Wesker of STARS, shirtless and with lips kissed red. Ravenous blue eyes under the askew sunglasses. Chris' dick jumps to life in his underwear as he thinks of kissing that firm chest, as he thinks of the older man reaching around to grab his ass before grinding their crotches together agonisingly. Wesker is mewling, which he knows is unrealistic, but he indulges nonetheless. They gravitate together, lips closing for a tender kiss. For shared breath.
All at once the fantasy changes, and the kiss is a clash of hatred and teeth. The air around him is chilly and a crate is digging into his back uncomfortably, but Wesker has a knee between his thighs and fiery, red eyes. Chris adjusts his underwear to pull his dick out, feeling it fill in his hand as fantasy-Wesker starts sucking marks into his collar. The tell-tale throbbing of soon to be bruises sing under his skin with his loud heartbeat, he spits on his free hand before starting to stroke himself steadily.
The Wesker from STARS was dominant, but subtly. Rockford Island Wesker was all teeth and rough, strong hands. He remembers Claire, how Wesker used her against Chris. His fist tightens around his cock, muscles straining to contain the bubbling rage. Wesker wasn't the only one acting with violence and frustration back then, Chris was just as mad. He's mad now, too. A fist tightens in that flawless slick-back and ruins it, Wesker snarls as his head is pulled back and suddenly the scene shifts again. His groin tingles as he recognises the flashing monitors and steel tables. Just beyond the tanker's walls the ocean billows as Chris punches Wesker in the face. Annoyingly, the man still looks like he's in his mid thirties.
The punch is answered with a snarl not too different from Rockford, though maybe a bit angrier now. Or just more pretentious. What the hell, probably equal parts both. Wesker thrusts his open hand, going straight into a control panel that was probably important when he misses Chris by a hair's breadth. Wesker tries to pull his hand out, to no avail. Chris shivers over the pillow. His fantasy evolves. Wesker; having his thin layers peeled off one by one, chest heaving with effort as he tries to pull free and a quiet, daring fire in his eyes.
Planting his left hand on Wesker's bare shoulder, Chris pushes him to lay flat agains the panel. Wesker struggles, Wesker always does. But in the next moment; Wesker is panting. Chris watches as his fingers disappear inside the hungry, slick hole, dick twitching in interest. As Chris spreads a panting, glaring Wesker open, the other Chris wrestles out of his underwear and tosses them into the dark.
His hands find Wesker's hips, his hands find the sides of the pillow. In the fantasy his cock plunges into a slick, hot and tight hole; in reality his cock digs into the pillow. His right hand comes to rest on the headboard, his left holding the pillow in place as he starts fucking into it roughly. In his mind, he's fucking into Wesker. Fucking himself into that smug, manipulative sadist. Wesker grunts under him, glaring at Chris as if what he is doing is anything worse than what Wesker has already done to him countless times. That glare makes him twitch inside Wesker, makes his hips hit harder and balls smack against Wesker's plush ass. Those soft insides clench around him as Wesker moans throatily, clearly unintentional. That sound alone shifts his fantasy a final time.
Wesker is on his back, neat, blonde hair mussed out of its usually perfect back-slick. Melodious moans ring out in the room around him, Wesker has nothing but pleasure and love on his face. The features are worn, older than he was back in S.T.A.R.S. and older than in Kijuju. They're in his bedroom, Albert isn't wearing his sunglasses either. It's dark in the room, but he sees those pale, blue eyes enough to lose himself in them. His harsh thrusts have turned rocking, erratic and soft as his hips rut into the pillow. It's with a grind he topples over and comes to a halt, breathing deeply to come down from up high. A tear runs down his face and saturates a spot in the pillow, just a single one.
The shame clings as sticky and warm to him as the semen now buried in the pillow, he pulls back and feels his wet dick cool in the air. He forgot to close the balcony door, he only closed the curtains. It's freezing, and he still has a half finishes cig out in the ashtray calling his name.